


Love Is For Children

by lando_cal_rice_ian



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Death, F/F, F/M, Gun Violence, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, i love my murder gf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 16:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16957644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lando_cal_rice_ian/pseuds/lando_cal_rice_ian
Summary: you’re just a pawn, sent to war to die among a sea of invisible names, but your love is something the great widow would vie for





	Love Is For Children

**Author's Note:**

> TUMBLR REQUEST: Hi I was wondering if you could do a one shot with Natasha about how her and the readers relationship changed romantically - [nomnomcupcakesworld]

There was a merciless pressure; it bore down on you, cutting off your breath. Hastily you retrieved the weapons assigned to you and fit them into their holsters. Desperately you tried to regulate your breathing. Your stomach protested. Despite all the training, and the trust S.H.I.E.L.D. had bestowed upon your competence, you felt dread gnawing at your insides. Whispers, harsh and relentless, promised from the back of your head that you would fail – your first mission would end in tragedy. No matter how hard you tried to suppress them, they only grew stronger.

“Hey, kid,” came a voice, like velvet, from the doorway.

There she stood, red hair ablaze in the sunlight: The Black Widow. Never before had you seen her this close. Having caught only glimpses of her from afar, and heard tales of her lethality, you were stunned to find that – something no one had told you – she was _beautiful_.

“Nervous?” As she asked the question, in a voice soft and yet strong, the corners of her lips arched upward.

“Y—Yeah.” The fumble of your voice caused her smirk to deepen. Cursing yourself intensely, you focused on preparing your weapons for the oncoming mission.

She approached you; the small heels of her shoes sounded like power against the metal floor. Once she had her guns and her gadgets, she turned to you and said, “You’ll be fine.”

You glanced at her, fleetingly. Loading her gun, she began to leave. “See you later.”

Barely above a whisper, you replied, “Bye…”

The sun set and plunged Russia into darkness. Hours had dragged by; which you spent in silence; within an armoured car alongside your team.

The car stopped. It was in the middle of nowhere, and yet you still had to walk the rest of the way. The mission was strictly _quiet_. The assassination of Ivan Petrov, one of Russia’s most ruthless black market mobsters, was like dancing with danger – a dance that surely invited death. As you trudged through the snow, eyes squinted in the heavy snowfall, a scarf wrapped tight around your neck most of your face, the weight of your weapons troubled you; they dragged you down, to an early grave.

In the snow, standing large and proud was Petrov’s holiday home. Even from afar you could tell it was _opulent_ – a snobbish reminder of his immense wealth.

Your team’s assignment was to neutralise the ground through immobilising the enemy’s security. “Protect Agent Romanoff,” Fury had said. “Make sure she gets out.”

Petrov and his beating heart were at the mercy of The Widow.

Snow covered the immaculate garden’s bush-art; no doubt the artistic intention. Clad in snow-white, your team darted through the garden, hiding behind the white bushes, swimming through the night’s shadows; searching with your guns for the private security.

The men stood monstrously large; but not even Hercules could stop a bullet. The silencers softened each gunshot. The bullets ripped through the air; piercing flesh. There was a heaviness in your chest when the men crumpled to the ground. Shooting a gun was profoundly different when it was aimed at a living, breathing being; was it right to hold another’s life in your hands?

Your thoughts were interrupted by gunshots. The mansion came alive. 

Your team leader, Mike, gestured for you all to move inside. Footsteps covered the snow. From within, harsh sounds of shooting filled the air. Men descended the grand staircase as if out of nowhere. Shouts, Russian curses, were soon followed by gunshots. No longer able to contemplate whether it was right or wrong to take a life, you raised your gun and, taking aim, pulled the trigger.

The sound invaded your ears.

The bullet disappeared into his forehead.

“Find cover!” Mike grabbed your arm and pulled you behind a wall.

The symphony of gunshots continued; muffled by the blood roaring in your ears. A nearby vase shattered as a bullet flew through the wall past you. Glancing towards the bullet hole, heart sinking in horror, you realised just how close it was from hitting your head.

Shocked, you gripped your firearm to your chest and pushed yourself back against the wall. Breaths fell from your lips in heavy pants. In the rain of bullets fell the bodies of the unfortunate. Before you could snap out of your daze and stop him, Mike ran from cover with a shout. Down went your enemies, falling at the mercy (or lack thereof) of your team. Mikes yelling sounded distant.

Then, suddenly, it all stopped.

The scream came next. Glancing past the corner of the wall, you realised what had happened. Among the fallen lay Mike; already gone; his once warm brown eyes staring, emptily, at the ceiling. Blood covered his glistening dark skin. Leaning over him was Luke: Mike’s best friend. His wails broke your heart.

Jane, a woman you often sparred with, crouched down beside the body and placed her fingers – hesitantly, as if fearing the inevitable result – at Mike’s throat.

Everyone knew the truth. And yet, Jane’s face fell, and she shook her head disappointedly.

It was as if you felt numb and yet restless. Your gun began to slip from your fingers; you did not bother to tighten your grip. It fell to your lap. It was in that moment, as Mike’s body blurred in your tear-filled eyes, that you realised just how fleeting life was; how it felt to witness a comrade die.

A strange bitterness rose in your mouth. _This is my life now_ , you thought. Luke sobbed, rocking Mike back and forth in his arms. _Killing… and waiting to die._

~*~

It was said that Ivan Petrov was assassinated as if by a vengeful God (a Goddess); swiftly, and without mercy. The chaos that followed afterward, those who fell among its storm of bullets, went unmentioned.

That mission was your past – having occurred several months ago. However, Mike’s funeral still haunted your mind. While training with him, you had never known that he had a family: a husband and a little daughter. Death had not frightened you before, and you thought it never would. But, after that night it began to follow you like a shadow.

It was raining the day you accompanied Luke to Mike’s grave. He and Mike had been brothers: not by blood, but by heart. And in their last moment together, Mike had been Luke’s shield.

Luke dreamt often that he took the bullets that had been meant for him, and that after he said goodbye to his brother, Mike would return home to his family and raise his daughter. When he woke, he would bury his face in his pillow, and _scream_. The screams would turn to wails.

As you both stood before Mike’s gravestone, his daughter’s letters soaked and ruined in the rain, you held Luke’s hand and squeezed it in reassurance.

“We’re like pawns, [Y/N].”

His words dazed you. He had barely spoken since Mike’s death. It was as if his voice disappeared with Mike’s spirit. As the rain fell like tears around you, Luke turned towards you with tears in his own eyes, a frown creased into his forehead.

“We’re not the Avengers,” he continued. “We aren’t even special agents. We’re _disposable_. And they will never weep for us.”

Luke’s words plagued you for a long time. It whispered from the back of your mind. They were drowned only once, by screams, on the day he died; your arms were painted with his blood as he took his last breath. Only you and your team wept for him. Nick Fury impassively addressed his death; he had seen so much death, and sent so many into destruction, that it was just another soldier sacrificing their life for their country. It was just another soldier sacrificing their lives for the powerful.

It was just _another_ name.

Your sorrow turned to rage. And you frequently unleashed it in training. You grew deadlier. You were a storm, hungry for the wicked. Concern turned to fear. Your team remained faithful and constantly at your side. Jane no longer sparred with you – she was not ashamed to admit she found you intimidating in the training room – but instead would often sleep-over at your apartment and offer you whatever support you required.

Eventually, you gained the attention of your superiors; and, the eye of a certain red-haired assassin.

In her mind, she thought of the nervous recruit she had once reassured before a mission. But who she saw now barely reminded her of that person.

She watched you fight. There was a raw brutality in your moves. At first, the assassin felt impressed. Until, Clint wondered aloud, “What tragedy did [he/she/they] go through to end up like that?”

The Widow watched you more carefully with Clint’s words in her mind; noticing the gloom in your eyes, the heaviness at your shoulders.

_Like us?_

~*~

Classic rock played in the background amongst gentle chatter. You rattled the ice cubes in your glass, watching them drown in amber liquid.

You did not often go to the bar, but tonight you were feeling particularly in need of a drink – a strong one.

Director Fury had offered you a promotion. He wanted you to be a special agent. He had asked you _in person_. Though it was more of an order, you had dared to refuse.

Mike and Luke died unhonoured, bleeding for their country in the shadows; you would never forget that, or them. If you had to remain in the shadows to notice and respect your peers, then you gladly would.

As your surroundings became gradually blurrier and blurrier, a red-headed woman approached you at the counter. She went unnoticed as she took the seat by your side, a smirk at her lips when she realised the extent of your intoxication.

“Hey, kid.”

Even in a drunken haze, your mind registered her voice, her words. A rapid rhythm overcame your heart and, although you were curious as to why _the Black Widow_ was at your side at a bar, you intently focused your eyes on your drink. The ice cubes were melting – like your brain.

“I know you remember me.” Her smirk was yet to leave her lips.

The words slipped from your tongue before you could stop them. “It would be impossible not to.”

 _Red hair in the shadows: crimson like the blood of Ivan Petrov._ _Carnage in her beautiful eyes._

“I could say the same about you.” From your peripheral vision you saw her slide a file towards you. Music filled the silence between you.

“What do you want?” you whispered.

“Director Fury—”

“Aha, of course,” a snort escaped you, “ _he_ sent you.”

“Yes,” she replied carefully, her gaze intent upon your face. “The Director is a little, hmm, let’s say _disappointed_ , that you refused his offer. However, your file is extraordinarily impressive, and he would like you to know that the offer is still available. He just wants you to take some time to think about it.”

“I already have.” Without even looking at her, you pushed the file away from you. “The answer is still no. It will always be no.”

Silence was expected; anything else would have been a surprise to you. Assuming that the Avenger would leave, you ordered another drink and returned your attention to numbing your soul.

However, she did not leave. And, after a pause in which she watched you with her sharp, dissecting eyes, she spoke one simple word.

“Why?”

The unexpected outcome left you in a stupor; though, even if it hadn’t, your drunken mind would still be incompetent at forming an answer. Finally, you turned towards her, your wide eyes merely staring straight back. She was still scrutinising you, taking you apart and putting you back together; the thought of having no privacy, of being sifted through, left a bitter taste in your mouth.

_“We’re not the Avengers.”_

Luke’s voice rose through the haze in your mind. Resentment burned in you as you stared into her eyes, the same eyes you feared that night when you had watched her walk past fallen bodies with only the trace of murder in her soul.

_“And they will never weep for us.”_

Your intoxication provided a courage you could never have mustered before, in the face of an _assassin_ , of someone far more important than you could ever be. “I don’t want to be like you,” you almost spat.

The shock, and traces of distress in her eyes offered a jolt of guilt in you; but your tongue was like lead, unable to move, unable to apologise. And you did not want to. _They_ never apologised. They never noticed people like you – people like Mike and Luke. The pawns would forever be unimportant to them, unworthy of notice.

Knocking back the remainder of your liquor, you gathered your belongings and trudged out of the bar. Into the embrace of the night; where no one would see your tears. Where no one in the world cared.

~*~

It was the first time you were assigned to a mission with _them_ : The Avengers. You had your suspicions that Fury was trying to tempt you to accept his promotion. You refused to even meet his eye during briefing.

The _heroes_ barely noticed your troop, as was expected. Once, you would have been as star-struck as your peers were in that moment. But all you felt now was sick.

Until _he_ approached you. Agent Barton was as much a master assassin as The Widow was; but he was also a sarcastic jester. He held a mug each in his hands, filled to the brim with coffee, spilling _none_ as he sat beside you. The frown of confusion on your face was instantaneous, and, no matter how hard you tried, it would not retreat.

“Hey,” he greeted you lightly.

You watched him cautiously. “Hi?”

“Want some coffee?”

A moment transpired. Too shocked to speak, you could only stare; but a bubble of laughter began to brew inside of you. You had assumed both mugs were for himself. It was not a farfetched assumption: many of you had witnessed him drink coffee straight from the coffee pot – on _frequent_ occasions _._

“No one wants to drink coffee as black as your soul, Clint.” It was her, jabbing her friend from where she stood – with _the Captain_ himself.

Your smile was small; but did not go unnoticed by The Widow. There was a glint in her eyes as she turned away.

“Hardy-har-har.” Clint glared good-naturedly in her direction before swiftly downing his coffee. Your frown returned; he did not flinch in the least from the bitterness.

To be honest, you were impressed.

It was then you realised the lower-ranked troops were not being ignored. It was typical for the low ranks to be brushed aside. But, as you glanced around, you noticed Captain Rogers had left Agent Romanoff’s side and was now conversing with six soldiers, smiling as he recalled his days as one of them during the war. The “Great” Tony Stark was taking selfies with a group of your acquaintances, a trace of grief in his eyes when he saw some of them raising the peace sign.

When your gaze found hers, you found her smiling – directly at you. Her arm felt warm when she came to sit – closely – beside you.

Guilt gnawed at your insides.

“You are all important.” Her eyes were once more peering into your soul, but not selfishly nor carelessly; but with a tenderness that startled you. “Every single one of you. You have each other, but now you have us too. I talked to them—” she nodded her head towards her fellow Avengers— “and we realised that we _have_ been taking you all for granted. And we are _sincerely_ sorry.”

“Without you,” she continued, “we couldn’t win.”

She was _beautiful_ , but you realised, though she often smothered it, that her soul was what made her a so breath-taking. Despite the physical and mental scars, and the blood on her hands… she remained _kind_.

“I’m sorry – about your friends. Michael and Luke were heroes. The bravest I’ve ever seen.”

There was a sorrow in her eyes, a deep understanding.

_“They will never weep for us.”_

You smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, too.”

She understood, she was wise. You were apologising for something else. And she smiled back.

_Yes, Luke, they will._

~*~

You grunted, collapsing against the wall. Blood seeped out of your shoulder wound, trickling between your fingers. Breath heaving, unsteady and faltering alongside your heartbeat, you listened carefully for her footsteps.

The assassin drew nearer, her deadly heels clicking against the floorboards. Better there than in your shoulder.

Gripping your shoulder tighter, you lifted your gun with your other hand, waiting… waiting… waiting—

“ _Nat,”_ you whispered softly, closing your eyes. “ _Nat… I’m sorry.”_

From beyond the wall where you were leaning, she sneered, lifting her own gun.

_It’s now or never._

Abruptly, you got to your feet and jumped out from behind the wall, aiming your gun at her head. You saw her smirk, noticed her gun rising. Both triggers were pulled at the same time, the _bang_ s echoing within the walls. As you fell, as if in slow motion, crying from the pain, you saw the droplets of blood spurt from the red hole in her forehead; watched her fall backwards along with you.

Your eyelids grew heavier. Darkness washed over the white ceiling. As you slipped away, her name rose to your lips, thrown out among the fading of your mind.

“ _Nat._ ”

~*~

_“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”_

“Eh?” There was a throbbing ache spread throughout your body as you rose from the blackness of oblivion, blinking the grogginess from your eyes. A face loomed above you, smiling. Your heart leapt into your throat and you gave a small cry, startling the person. They stumbled back.

“I told you not to stand too close.” You recognised the dry and unimpressed voice: Tony Stark.

Continuing to blink as you returned to reality, you turned your head to gather your surroundings. The med-bay walls were far too recognisable, startlingly white. Gathered within the room was Clint, who you realised had been the one leaning over you, and Mr Stark. The latter was scrutinising the medical machines, making you fear for your life.

“What happened?” you managed to say through your aching throat.

“You took her down, [Y/N],” Clint replied, looking grim. “But you got hurt. Stab to the shoulder, bullet in the chest. Nowhere near your heart, thank god. You must have shot first; she most likely panicked.”

“How did I get out?”

“We were nearby.” Clint took your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You smiled; you needed it.

The door opened, but it was not in your range of vision. Footfalls grew closer to your bed, a breathless laughter approaching you. Tears welled in your eyes.

“You came for me, didn’t you?”

Natasha reached your side and immediately took your hand. You were surprised to see the glint of tears in her eyes.

“Of course— Of course I did.” She lifted your hand to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your skin.

Her name had been at your lips in the chaos of your fight; a prayer; your hope. You remembered thinking that if you passed, you would do so with her in your thoughts, so you could die happy.

Your heart pattered wildly when she continued to hold your hand, a determination in her eyes that refused to let you go.

Even when she finally released her physical hold on you, she did not leave your side. Between missions she was always there, a selfless support that kept you afloat in a tumultuous ocean. Her calculating gaze watched you every second, either to determine what you required in order to swiftly recover, or simply to admire the determination etched across your face, the captivating way you smiled through the pain – and oh, what a smile you had.

Natasha held your hand every night before you went to sleep, promising you she was there at your side, silently vowing no one would hurt you again.

Praying to whomever ruled the skies that _no one would take you from her_. And in those moments, when you slipped into your sea of dreams, when she held her fingers to your throat in fear that you were gone, she tightened her grip on your hand and cried.

 _Love is for children._ But her heart would not stop aching, _pining_ for you. She could not lose you, not to death, not even to life. _Love is for children, Natalia_.

Maybe, she thought, it wasn’t love. Not the typical romantic emotion a living being would feel, but something _so much more_ , something heavenly, perhaps even hellish – something _ethereal_.

As The Widow lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, she finally consented to the truth of the matter: you had stolen her heart; or at least what was left of it.

And beneath your closed eyelids, you dreamt of her, red hair ablaze beneath the sunlight, smiling like an angel. In your sleep, you whispered her name.

“ _Natalia_.”


End file.
